Gromov the Doubter of Mortals

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Gromov awoke every morning to the low hum of thunder that only he could hear. It wasn’t in the clouds, he insisted, but in his bones. “Mjölnir trembles,” he’d mutter, clutching his yellowed beard, “the storm waits for my command.” His neighbors in the apartment block thought the pipes were just rattling.

He’d walk the streets of Murmansk wrapped in a mustard coat, scanning faces for hints of deceit. “They don’t remember,” he’d whisper. “The world’s forgotten the old war.” When people smiled politely, he took it as mockery. When they disagreed, he saw it as heresy. “You think I am not he?” he’d ask, eyes wide and pale as a northern dawn. “You think thunder just happens?”

Once, at the bakery, he declared that the smell of bread was divine proof of renewal, “the scent of Asgard’s harvest.” The clerk laughed, and Gromov left without paying, muttering that mortals should be careful whom they mock. The next day, a power outage struck the whole block. Gromov took it as confirmation — divine retribution through blackout.

But his greatest doubt wasn’t in others; it was in himself. Some nights he’d stare into the mirror, the yellow lamplight glazing his skin like molten gold. He’d lift a hammer from his workbench — just a carpenter’s mallet — and whisper, “You remember me, don’t you?” When it stayed silent, he’d frown, eyes flicking as if listening to far-off thunder.

He grew wary of those who questioned him — the landlord, the postman, even the stray cat that didn’t flinch at lightning. “They test me,” he’d mutter, “the frost giants walk among us again.”

One dawn, after a long storm, they found Gromov standing on the roof, arms outstretched to the trembling sky, his beard wet with rain and electricity. “See?” he shouted down to the street below. “The thunder still knows my name!”

The onlookers said the lightning split the air but never touched him. Gromov smiled — not triumphant, but relieved — as though, at last, someone had agreed.